Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Busy days. I got my first physical therapy yesterday morning by a therapist my doctor specifically recommended, in a new facility that opened, ironically, on the same day I fractured the ankle. Located six minutes by car from the house, it’s both convenient and very nicely set up.
From examining me before we began any work, and from the notes the doctor had forwarded, it seems that I’m considered to be ahead of the game in my rehabilitation. This probably comes from the fact that I began to work on the ankle myself during the three weeks I had the removable cast, but I prefer to think that back when I first had the accident, I had a little talk with my bones and told them they were going to be very good bones and were going to heal quickly. I’ve used this approach before, specifically during the time I had braces and told my teeth that I expected them to move FAST and get it over with. I wound up having the braces for only nineteen months rather than twenty-four. I swear that when I talk, my body listens.
After therapy, Fritz and I performed the daily ritual of drying the condensation off the windows and I left for a meeting with my doctor to clear up confusion in the transfer of my medical records from my Boston HMO to my new one up here. I then went down to Boston to shop for food items we cannot get up here (Trader Joe’s we love you!), check in at my old digs at MIT, and then took the T to the church of St. John the Evangelist on the back side of Beacon Hill.
I’m designing Benjamin Britten’s The Prodigal Son, the second of his three church parable operas, for Intermezzo in St. John’s next September. I needed to check out the lighting/electrical possibilities and measure the interior and all its immobile and moveable components to make a model that the director and I can work from.
St. John’s bills itself as an inclusive, liberal Episcopalian community. Ya think? The rector is a lesbian, the church hosts BAGLY meetings, gays make up a large portion of the congregation, and our company has been greeted with open arms. I spent close to two hours there with J, the founder/manager of the company, learning about the space that proved to be surprisingly more flexible and theater-friendly than I could have hoped.
The church, by the way, appointed Harriet Beecher Stowe’s father as its first minister. Sadly, the manse behind the church in which the Reverend and his daughter lived, she the author of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” which was hugely influential in driving Boston’s Abolition activism, was allowed to fall into partial ruin, was condemned by the city as structurally unsound and demolished in 1953. Otherwise it would have been a valuable companion to the Hill’s African-American Meeting House on the African-American Freedom Trail.
Me: This aging stuff sucks. Make it stop.
My body: OK, have it your way.
Fatal coronary ensues.
Doug--talking to my body is probably more helpful psychologically to me than physically to my body, but who knows? I'm not the type to lie around with my leg up when something like my recent ankle fracture happens, and I think the fact I push the envelope a bit aids in healing. anyway, it seems to have worked so far.
That church is beautiful.